


Implicit

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (its Martin duh), Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Martin takes care of Jon in a Very Intimate Way that's all there is to it, Riding, Sounding, Trans Male Character, Trust Kink, like if u really squint, sort of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: Martin proposes something. Jon submits himself to absolute trust.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 277





	Implicit

**Author's Note:**

> there are!! no sounding fics!! in this whole gd feed!! smfh I have to do Everything around here, huh? And don't u dare @ me I'm posting this off anon, so, really, if this isn't your thing, kindly just move on. we've all got our vices, and so what if this is me projecting onto Martin, I'm a simple homo with simple needs. anyway hope yall enjoy, this is what broke through the writers block... yeehaw (unbeta'd af, I wrote this in like three hours pls forgive mistakes)
> 
> Also, if you want to request something, please feel free to shoot a message over to my [tumblr](https://master-fiber.tumblr.com/)!

Trust is so… natural, anymore. Here. Together. In this drafty cottage cradled amidst the wind scoured hills, surrounded by the gentle lowing of cattle, the green and yellow and grey supplication of the grass and gorse and sky. With nothing to detract from the gentle ministrations of life, with nothing to hunt or be hunted by, with only each other for company, life is… well, life again. Worth living, despite how cheesy Jon initially found it all. Then it rather dawned on him that he hadn’t just enjoyed simplicity for simplicity’s sake in, well, _ever_ , so no wonder it was all so alien to him. 

And Martin has helped in so many invaluable ways. Coaxed him through nightmares the first week, with tea and walks and careful, oh so careful embraces by firelight. And when those embraces turned to… other, more implicative affections, well… it really was just inevitable, wasn’t it? That they have danced around this for so long, a charming cottage in the Scottish highlands was quite honestly a well earned culmination for attractions long since denied. 

It was, of course, foreign and tentative to Jon. It had never felt… right, before Martin. But now, _with_ Martin, in the safety of his arms, in the delicate song of his breaths and sighs and moans, harmonied by Jon’s own as they discover what feels good, and what feels _incredible_ , Jon has found a certainty, not just pleasure, although that’s quite a bonus, in and of itself.

And so the days pass in a semi-conscious kind of bliss, routine settling in like dust motes fluttering through sunbeams on a Sunday afternoon. Martin always makes the tea at breakfast, Jon always refuses to wear a scarf for their afternoon walk and steals Martin’s. Amiable conversation by the hearth. The warm press of their bodies in the bed at night. Sometimes kisses devolve more deeply, and sometimes they do not. 

They don’t plan any of it, just let it evolve on its own, let it construct itself, this love and trust and happiness. Jon has spent his whole life believing in a foundation set by his own hands, having never considered it might just… do so of its own volition if he simply allowed someone else to share the effort. 

And now he has found someone. And now things are so very, wonderfully good. And so he shies less and less from his pursuit of that goodness. He never used to bother with breakfast beyond a cuppa; now he looks forward to the omelettes Martin makes them, expertly rich with butter and chives and pink pepper. He’d never smelled heather before; then Martin led them down a cow trail where it grew thick and lush, subtly violet and just as precocious in scent. He’s never been able to sit still, always needs to jostle his leg or tap his fingers, but by the fire (with Martin, of course) he can doze for hours, saying nothing and hearing just as little, even if he wants to listen to Martin talk about nothing of import. 

And sometimes Martin will look simply too lovely in the firelight, or too windswept after a walk, and Jon will simply _have_ to kiss him, will have to allow himself to be led (or carried) stumbling and laughing to the bedroom, will have to concede his stoic dignity to the clumsy rucking up and off of shirts and trousers, the splaying of legs, the tangling of fingers in hair, or around Martin’s shoulders as Martin trembles in his lap. Or against his face, on the rare occasions Jon gains an upper hand and gets him on his back, first, sighs against him, tastes him, slips two fingers inside him and _knows_ just how to curl them. And each hitched moan, each tightening of Martin’s body around his own, each wave of pleasure, all of it crescendos with the _trust_ implicit in it all. 

And so Jon does not worry as much as he might have, otherwise, when Martin approaches him with a… somewhat obscure request. Or, it’s more of a suggestion. Martin still frets over boundaries, still asks if things are okay, if Jon really is comfortable. And Jon reassures him in any and every way he can till Martin is left breathless on his back, staring dazedly at the ceiling while Jon peppers the insides of thighs with kisses and coy smiles.

So, yes. Yes, it’s okay. Thrilling, even. Because it’s extremely different and very much requires as much trust and care as two people can share with one another. And Martin invites him to discuss it in full, of course, blushes heavily through his admittance that, well, he’d seen it on some questionable site he’d visited ages ago, and the image just would not leave him. At first, he’d envied the fact he could never feasibly receive in such a way, which quickly manifested into a desire to… perform, as it were. He’d approached the idea with the two serious partners he’d had in the past, but neither was keen.

But Jon? Jon is certainly intrigued, the idea of such an… intimate, exposing act, submitting himself to Martin’s attention so utterly, consenting fully to it rather than having strangeness inflicted onto him as every other person and monster has done so… 

“I… yes,” he breathes, as Martin worries his bottom lip.

They’re sat on the bed, the foot of it, close, but not in the way that the sudden heat under Jon’s collar would like. So he amends this, pulls Martin to him, soothes his nervous mouth with a slow, luxurious kiss. 

“I think I would very much like that,” he says against Martin’s stunned smile, just to be sure, to reassure Martin.

“O-oh,” is all Martin can manage, and then he rather accomplishes quite a groan as Jon dips his head, nudges Martin’s chin up with his nose, and presses his tongue and teeth to the fluttering pulse climbing up Martin’s throat.

When Jon relents, they both are breathing heavily, Jon’s hair somehow already mussed, Martin’s eyes shining. Jon watches them, watches _him_ , the deliberation and adoration flitting through them, the subtle fluttering of his eyebrows. 

“Now?” Jon asks, not so much for his own edification, but to reground Martin who seems to have gotten a bit off track. 

“I - oh? _Oh_ , I - I mean -” 

The blush is back, flaring preciously across Martin’s nose and lighting up each freckle there like fairy lights in pink relief, and he squeaks more than he laughs.

“If - if you’re okay? With that? So soon?”

“You did ask, Martin,” Jon points out wryly.

Martin splutters and waves his hands, as if to dispel the confusion.

“No I know! I just, are you sure? Do you even - I mean -”

“You’ve explained it well enough,” Jon interrupts, taking pity on Martin’s blatant embarrassment, charming as it is. “And -”

And here he takes Martin’s hands, lifts one to his mouth, turns it over, and gently presses his lips to the inside of Martin’s wrist. 

“I would very much like to share this with you.”

Martin makes a delicate little noise at the back of his throat, staring, again, stunned as ever, looking just as awed as the first time they’d kissed. So Jon leans in and kisses him again and again until he glimpses the worry ease from Martin’s brow and feels his lips slacken into a softer “o”.

“Okay,” he eventually murmurs, and Jon smiles into one more kiss before pulling back.

“I take it you - ah…” and now it’s Jon’s turn to fluster. “Erm… that you have the, uh -”

“Y-yes,” Martin says, to save them the agony of admitting things aloud. “I - yes erm..."

Oh, but Jon can’t let it alone just yet, just _has_ to get one more sly dig in.

“Well,” he quirks an eyebrow, grinning insufferably, “you certainly know how to prepare an escape plan.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin groans, and gives him a hard shove on the shoulder. 

“I’m just saying!” Jon does, indeed, say. “Sure you don’t have a bit of beholding in you? Very intuitive foresight, this.”

“Jon I swear,” Martin glares, and Jon laughs.

“Sorry, sorry. Go on then."

“You are making this supremely cheesy, I hope you know.”

To which Jon responds by pulling Martin in for another kiss, this one entirely of tongue and teeth, and a heavy hand which he works between Martin’s legs, pressing with the heel of his palm and swallowing the broken keen Martin gives in turn.

“Christ,” Martin exhales when they part, and all pretenses drop with that, the moment poised between them.

“Go on,” Jon says, low and commanding, not with the buzz of static on his tongue, but from the sudden burst of heat in the depths of his stomach.

Martin complies, quickly and eagerly, leaving Jon to situate himself on the bed, propped up against the headboard while Martin busies himself procuring a small compact case from his duffle. 

He sets it on the table beside the bed, then moves in to straddle Jon’s waist and bracket his head with his hands braced on the headboard.

“Oh?” says Jon, a bit conspiratorially, but quickly sucks in a sharp breath as Martin arches against him.

“I see,” he mutters, as Martin grins.

“Well you’ve - you’ve got to be hard for this, obviously,” Martin retorts, and moves again, slower but more deliberately, and Jon shifts his hips to meet the pressure, savoring the warmth building between them.

“Makes sense,” he says, and allows Martin to lift his chin with one hand, the other travelling down, down, and massaging carefully as Martin kisses him.

“Just let me take care of you,” Martin breathes, and Jon can only nod into another kiss, whining as Martin undoes his belt, his zip, and trails that clever hand over his briefs.

“Nn _mm_ …” he exhales, Martin kissing down his throat, still not touching him fully, but implying devious, wonderful things with the way he strokes him through his briefs.

“That good?” Martin asks into the hot skin beneath Jon’s ear.

“Must you ask?” Jon turns his head, searching out Martin’s mouth with his own, and as he sucks Martin’s lip between his teeth, Martin chooses then to finally stray his hand into Jon’s briefs, ghosting the smooth pads of his fingers down the length of his cock.

“ _Christ_ ,” Jon murmurs, and then properly whines as Martin flicks his thumb at the head. 

Martin’s response is a breathy laugh that effectively breaks the kiss between them, providing him the perfect opportunity to pull away and shift his weight from Jon’s hips as he moves back, and down, and down, till that devilish mouth of his is a hair’s breadth from Jon’s naval, and then lower, lower… 

“F- _fuck_ ,” Jon grits out, as ever incapable of wrapping his mind around the warm, wet perfection of Martin’s mouth wrapped around his cock. 

He contends with it by anchoring a hand at the back of Martin’s neck and applying just enough pressure to encourage Martin to move, to take him deeper into the back of his throat. Martin steadies himself there, lets Jon shudder and fail to restrain his hips, only pulling away when the need for air overwhelms his desire to wreck Jon entirely. After a quick, gulping breath, though, he dives down again, but uses a bit more finesse, sucking at the head, laving with his tongue, and slowly taking Jon’s full length in again before pulling back and repeating these motions once, twice, several times more, till Jon’s muttering curses even he can’t make sense of.

“F’you d-don’t - m’gonna,” is about as coherent a thought as he can manage, the pressure building dangerously, his restraint waning with every flick of tongue Martin cruelly inflicts. 

“Okay,” Martin replies, his voice gone a bit hoarse, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t shoot a bolt of heat straight through Jon’s stomach.

But Martin does relent. Sometimes, he rather likes to tease, eases off only to make Jon arch to the point of his spine snapping, but that’s not what tonight is for. This is merely preparation, although Jon’s of a half a mind to ask they forget the rest of the endeavor and simply enjoy each other this way. But no. No. He wants to indulge Martin, wants to come undone under his careful ministrations. He wants the vulnerability, and he wants Martin to know how he is trusted.

So he says, just as hoarse, but with a decided note of conviction, “Go on then, love.” and Martin goes scarlet - gorgeous - to his hairline, but obliges eagerly enough, procuring the case from the table along with the lube secreted away in its drawer.

“I - there’s only three sizes,” Martin explains, as much, Jon suspects, to bridge the awkward gap of opening said case to reveal its curious contents as to actually explain the sounds, themselves.

It’s then Jon realizes he’s sat there, still clothed, with - ah - rather a mess in his lap. So while Martin talks, he spares himself a moment to kick his trousers and briefs off, fully, though still leaves on his shirt. He’ll blame the slight chill in the room for it, but really, he’s fond of the somewhat… debauched aesthetic it provides. And he knows Martin likes it, too. There’s a time for an intimate romp, fully skin to skin, and sometimes, things call for a more informal look. A blowjob in shirtsleeves never hurt anyone, and he suspects the proceeding attention will be just as complementary to his pale blue button down.

“It’s only two millimeters,” Martin is saying, returning Jon to the task at hand. “Sterilized, of course. The site’s extremely reputable, don’t worry. Deals in all sorts of - er…”

“Medical paraphernalia?” Jon offers, and Martin bites severely into his lip again.

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Right,” Jon says. “Ah, well, anything I? Need to do, then?”

That self conscious creeping of doubt is trying to worm its way back in, and Jon will not allow it to spoil this. He _wants_ this. He wants Martin.

“Just… lay back, ehm, for me,” Martin says.

Jon does, wondering if he should situate a pillow under his hips, but decides against it. He’s still… very excited, as it were.

“Good, okay,” Martin sets the case aside again; in his other hand, between thumb and forefinger, he grips a long, thin, gleaming rod of smooth metal, the tip of which is rounded off slightly larger than the rest of the width. 

And suddenly, it dawns on Jon that _that_ is going to be inside of him, that Martin is going to do _that_ to him, and he doesn’t quite pale from the idea, but a more appropriate flutter of nerves seizes with the heat in his stomach, and Martin must realize this, because his own tentative expression softens, and he leans over to kiss Jon.

“You don’t have to,” he says, and Jon knows this, he does. 

He knows Martin would never hurt him, would never visit upon him any kind of discomfort. He felt safe enough to open up to Jon about this, and Jon wants to return that to him, wants him to know how he is trusted. He wants this. He _wants_ this.

“Go on,” he says against Martin’s lips, and pushes just the slightest hint of pleading into Martin’s head, just to show him, just to reassure him.

And, just for good measure, he murmurs, “Show me how you love me.”

Martin’s gasp is barely audible, but the shudder that wracks his body is tangible enough for the both of them.

“Please,” Jon says. “ _Please_.”

It is with no small amount of resignation, then, that Martin pulls away, and Jon pities him, he does. They could spend the whole evening simply kissing and murmuring their adorations and he would be in a bliss unparalleled. But there is more. There is so much more to share.

“You’ll tell me to stop,” Martin breathes, taking, now, the open lube in hand, as well, and dripping it onto the flushed head of Jon’s aching cock. “If it’s too much.”

“Yes,” Jon hisses, the cold drip of the lube shooting sparks to his toes, and then he properly moans as Martin wraps a loose fist around him and strokes, lazily.

“And - and you’ll tell me when it’s good,” Martin says, voice gaining confidence as Jon’s resolve dissolves into the incoherence of pleasure.

“Yes, _yes_.”

“I’m - I’m going to -” says Martin, but needn’t finish the sentence, as Jon feels, _feels_ so distinctly the cold, precise tip of the sound where Martin teases it around his cock, rubs it up and down the underside of the head, then up, up; then - then….

The noise that issues from Jon’s throat is entirely new, entirely _other_ , wrecked in such a way that could not be discerned from bliss or agony, but instead is a beautiful confluence of both, pitching down and throaty and desperate as Martin presses, so _so_ slowly the sound into him, pulls it back up just an inch, then pushes again, deeper, _deeper_.

“ _Jon_.”

It’s so distant, his name, but he tries, _tries_ to follow it back. But the smoothness inside him tethers him, cajoles him from the forefront of his amazement to a hazy sort of unawareness. 

Until it hits, something, _somewhere_ , and the pleasure that blinds him snaps his eyes back open so he’s staring at Martin through tears with a silent, sobbing moan pushing past his disbelieving lips.

“Christ, _Jon_ ,” Martin is saying, is gasping, one hand still wrapped around his length, the other trying not to shake where it secures the end of the sound. 

Barely any of it is still visible, Martin having worked nearly all of it into Jon, to the place that pulses hot, hot pleasure through his every limb, makes him feel tight and loose all at once, makes him incapable of producing anything beyond a helpless, keening plea of Martin’s name.

“God, J-Jon, this is - I -” and Martin twists the sound as he stammers, and Jon throws his head back and cries out, hands turning to fists in the blankets, thighs quaking with the effort it takes not to thrash.

“M-more,” he manages to grit out. “Please, _Martin_ \- _ah_ -”

And he cannot tell if he’s somehow supplanted the image in Martin’s mind, or if he’s just that damn good at reading Jon’s body, but the next thing he knows, Martin’s tongue is spread over the head of his cock, then tapering and teasing at the end of the sound, then widening again as Martin takes him into his mouth, sucking gently, moaning and humming, the vibrations of which travel straight down through the sound and deep inside Jon’s body.

“Fuck fuck _fu-uck_ ,” is all Jon can manage, a litany of gorgeous agony suffusing him to his bones, and it’s so good, so _fucking_ good, and he wants - he… he wants -

“Martin, _Martin_ , please, n-need -”

Martin pulls back, lips full and shining and swollen, and that same, perfect spark of understanding passes between them, and he’s undressed within the moment, trousers tossed to the floor alongside Jon’s, and Jon watches, _watches_ as, despite the clear desperation in both their bodies, Martin so so _so_ cautiously takes hold of the sound, gives it a tug, a push, urging one last impossible bloom of heat through Jon’s naval, then slowly pulls, watching Jon the whole time, watching Jon watch as he removes it, watching Jon as he discards it haphazardly, watching Jon as he throws his leg over his waist, guides his cock between his thighs, and sinks down onto it. Watching _watching_ , gaze unwavering even as heat flares between them, even as Martin can barely move for how deep he’s taken Jon into himself, into the velvet warmth of his perfect body. Watches as Jon comes undone, sobbing silently as pleasure pulses through him and he fills Martin through his own climax, as they tremble through the aftershocks together, and then the bittersweet agony of overstimulation, until finally Martin relents and collapses beside Jon, pulling him into a tangle of arms and lips and tongue and gentle teeth and breathy, heaving groans.

“Should… probably clean up,” Martin mutters at length, at distant, _arduous_ length, the both of them failing to find their breath completely and utterly intoxicated by the closeness of one another and the pure sanctitude of their afterglows.

“Mmn…” is all Jon can manage, and all he is willing to. 

He never wants to move again, thank you _very_ much, and would also very much like to stick that pin in Martin’s head, but, Christ, the effort…

“T’morrow,” he says, and Martin makes no move to, well, move, so… that’s a win.

“Thank you,” Martin says after a long, lovely moment of quiet. “I… well. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” agrees Jon. “But - mm, n-not every night, ‘kay?”

Somehow, Martin has strength enough to laugh.

“No. Don’t worry.”

Jon hums, pleased, and then sighs content as can be as Martin hauls as much blanket around them as he can, supplementing the rest with his arm across Jon’s chest and his mouth against his neck.

“Still,” he murmurs there. “Thank you.”

“I’ll always trust you,” Jon replies, tangling his fingers with Martin’s.

Outside, beyond the sanctity of their bed, a light patter of rain picks up, dull and rhythmic and perfect.

“Always,” Jon says, as Martin’s breathing gains a rhythm all its own. 

His is soon to follow, every bit of him, it seems, so utterly devoted to Martin. And so contentedly, too. And it is perfect, and it is bliss.


End file.
